


The Sun Will Always Find You

by ragcat



Category: Criminal Minds, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Moreid, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-20 05:06:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragcat/pseuds/ragcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Much to his disgust, Sherlock loses a bet with John and they're off on holiday to a gay-friendly tropical island resort. There, they meet another couple, Spencer Reid and Derek Morgan. Sherlock learns something about his relationship with John, and Spencer discovers just how much Derek loves him. There will be sex in later chapters. Mostly though, this is fluffy with some angst-y overtones. My first JohnLock fic!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unengaged Mind

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place prior to Reichenbach, and is slightly AU in that, for this story, Moriarty is safely locked away somewhere. For Spencer and Derek, the time period is around two years after Henkel.
> 
> I'd love some feedback on my characterization of John and Sherlock since it's my first fic featuring them.

It was a strange sight.

Sherlock Holmes sat in a deck chair by a sparkling, unnaturally blue resort pool. He lay at a 45 degree angle, his long legs stretched out before him, elegant hands clasped at his chest. He looked rather like a corpse that had been propped up in his coffin as a sick joke. 

Apart from the hands, every part of his body was shielded from the sun—a wide-brimmed straw hat on his head, oversized sunglasses protecting his eyes, his blue dressing gown pulled up to his ears over a white t-shirt, and a light cotton blanket covering him from the waist down. To the average passerby, he would appear to be an eccentric nut-job, or, to the more sympathetically-minded, a poor soul determined to enjoy the tropical sun in spite of some horrid skin condition.

But, in reality, Sherlock Holmes was just miffed.

He hated the sun, hated “tanning”— it was absurd that people so often did it on purpose, for God’s sake—hated dressing like an idiot. He shifted, yanking fabric from a pair of overly long swimming trunks out of his crack. This caused a mild sneer to cross his face; John had ordered them for him from a catalog (they did have frolicking anthropomorphized dolphins all over them, which was cute, but hardly a look befitting a grown man) and they didn’t fit, but as Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to go shopping for beach wear in person, it was as John had said: “You get what you get, you tiresome great sod.”

Once the wedgie situation had been attended to, Sherlock went back to his Zen-like pose, masking the dissatisfaction that was roiling in his brain. He didn’t want to be there; hadn’t wanted to go on holiday, not now, not ever, not when it meant being cut off from everything that might potentially relieve the tedium of an unengaged mind.

Back in the civilized world, there was always the possibility of stumbling onto a case, but here—that was highly unlikely (although that poor woman in Aruba had somehow met her fate, with no perpetrator ever being definitively brought to justice... Clearly, they should have gone to Aruba.) 

And, he couldn’t even look to Lestrade to save him, as the phone system on the island was for shit, and John had sneakily managed to nick his mobile just before they’d left for the airport, leaving it with Mrs. Hudson to safeguard. 

John. Damn him, he was too clever by half, in Sherlock’s opinion. Thankfully, he was excellent in bed, which mostly made up for it, and definitely accounted for the fact that he’d allowed himself to be dragged here in the first place (damn him and his sex games), but sometimes... 

Of course, he’d tried to work up something before they’d left, not that it had done any good. In fact, Lestrade’s last words to him before departure had been, “No, Sherlock. There’s nothing, I swear, not a thing. Nothing that the feeble, dull-witted minds of the Yard can’t handle. You’re not needed, honest. Go on, have fun on your holiday, we’ll talk when you get back.”

Fun. In retrospect, it all sounded a bit rehearsed. The result of coaching, courtesy of Dr. John Watson, no doubt. Why, he’d probably even thrown in a bribe of some sort, and... The sneer returned.

Too clever by half. 

Just then, the man in question strode up, wearing a well-fitting pair of trunks that hung nicely just below his waist, with a beach towel slung sportily around his neck. His short sandy hair was ruffled by the sea breeze, lending him an uncharacteristically roguish air that Sherlock would have found quite appealing had he not been so... miffed. 

John stopped beside Sherlock, put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Seriously? This is what you wear to an exotic beach resort?”

“It’s sunny,” Sherlock intoned without moving. “There’s sun all over the place. I don’t care for it.”

“You’re just trying to embarrass me,” John replied. “You look like an absolute idiot.”

“Irrelevant. If I’m to suffer the torture of mind-destroying boredom, I might as well do it out here. But it is, as you know... sunny. Hence the outfit.”

“Right. Well, what’s it to be, then?”

Sherlock allowed one muscle on one side of his face to twitch with interest. He turned his head 25 degrees toward John and lifted his sunglasses. “Whad’you mean?”

“What do I have to do to get you to quit sulking and pretend to have a good time?”

“Oh! Finally, you’re asking the right questions... I suppose recreational drugs are out of the question?”

“A bit, yes.”

“Well, then, let’s see—I’d like something to drink.”

“Fine. Coke? Tea? Mineral water?”

“Alcohol.”

John’s brow shot up. “Really?”

“Of course. It’s not as though I’m using my brain for anything, it might as well be pickled.”

“All right, so, what do you want?”

“The hard stuff, a really good scotch, neat. None of that watered down bilge they typically serve at this sort of place. Bribe the barkeep if need be, I don’t suppose that’s beneath you.” He shot him a knowing look, but John didn’t appear to notice.

“I’ll see what I can do. What else?”

“Dinner. Something unusual, not like what we get at home. But, not too unusual either, no sea urchin or mango-glazed fish intestines, nothing like that.”

“Aren't you a right little Goldilocks. All right. And?”

“Sex. I’ll be needing lots and lots of sex from you, John, and something other than the anemic, luke-warm variety you’ve been dishing out lately. You’re better than that—put some effort into it for a change, for God’s sake.”

John rolled his eyes, determined not to take his lover’s baiting him seriously. “You know perfectly well that our lovemaking has been just fine, but if I’ve been at all lacking, it’s because I’ve been tired. I told you, I need a holiday. We both do, and that’s the point.” He sat on the edge of Sherlock’s chair and fought his way through the hat and sunglasses, revealing Sherlock’s peevish scowl. John leaned in and gave him a gentle kiss. “There’ll be sex, Sherlock. Anything you want.” In spite of himself, he caressed Sherlock’s face and he couldn’t help giving him a fond grin. “Now, would you please smile?”

Sherlock had fixed him with an annoyed glare, but his expression softened, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a grotesque approximation of a smile. John nodded resignedly.

“Lovely. Better than nothing, I suppose. I’ll get you that drink.” He stood up, and muttered as he turned, “As your legs are apparently broken...”

Sherlock didn’t respond, just rearranged himself into his death pose and settled in to wait for John and the booze to appear. 

*****  
Spencer Reid viewed himself in the mirror of his and Derek Morgan’s resort hotel bathroom. He had on a wide-brimmed straw hat, a long-sleeved white shirt hanging open over a gray t-shirt, and a rather long and baggy pair of swim trunks, adorned with colorful smiling fish playing beach volleyball. He shook his head and sighed.

“I look like an idiot.”

“You look fucking adorable, kid.” Morgan stepped into the bathroom and tipped back the hat in order to give Reid a deep kiss. “Thank you for this. I know you didn’t really want to go.”

“It’s all right. I need to learn to do things outside of my comfort zone.” In the past, Reid’s idea of a dream vacation was being able to ensconce himself in his room surrounded by stacks of books and his ancient computer, free to devote himself to whatever new area of study it was that had lately intrigued him. 

But at some point, he’d altered that vision to include Morgan—cuddling on the couch with him, barbecuing in the back yard with friends, going out to explore the town together—and sex. Lots and lots of sex. 

Of course, being whisked off to an exotic gay-friendly tropical resort still hadn’t been included on the list. But Morgan had made his case—they needed to get away, far away, from their work; they needed to goof off and rediscover each other in some remote place where they could be carefree and pampered. He’d topped it off with a sweet nuzzle and pleading puppy-dog eyes, and Reid had eventually caved. 

Morgan had made one call to their co-worker and mutual friend, Penelope Garcia, and three days later, they’d been on a plane to the island.

It was bewilderingly quick; Reid had made the mistake of protesting that a) he had nothing to wear and b) that he burned easily, and had promptly found himself being dragged off to to the mall by Garcia, AKA, the Queen of Shopping, herself. Two hours later, he’d been deposited back at home with bags filled with shorts, tank tops, sandals, sun screen, sun glasses, the hat and the absurd swim trunks, none of which he’d chosen for himself, but all of which it had seemed easier to accept rather than to extend the misery of shopping by another couple of hours.

And now, here he was, looking like a Vegas tourist, pasty white skin and all.

“I’m going to burn,” he said resignedly.

“No, you’re not. I put enough sunscreen on you to baste an elephant, and with that get-up, you won’t even turn pink.” Morgan put his arms around him from behind and then pulled a thatch of long hair away from his neck in order to bury his nose under his lover’s ear. He inhaled deeply and smiled into the mirror. “You smell like coconut.”

“Wonderful. Now I guess I can look forward to being infested with coconut mites.”

“Coconut mites?”

“Mm-hm. The worst of the coconut pests. Their feeding scars and distorts the coconuts, which leads to premature fruit drop.”

Morgan chuckled. “I’m not gonna let that happen, pretty boy. Your fruit’s going to stay right up where it’s supposed to be, okay?”

Reid frowned, not getting the joke, but he brightened when Morgan nuzzled him one more time before announcing, “I’m going to go sign us up for some activities. I’ll meet you out by the pool in a few.”

“All right.”

******

Sherlock felt—and smelled—the stranger’s presence well before he bothered to open his eyes. He allowed these words to escape his lips in a soft sigh of disgust:

“Three hundred ninety-eight point two.”

He felt the man pause in his preparations to settle into the deck chair next to his, and then, startlingly, heard his voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you, it’s just that this is the only open chair on the shady side of the pool.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. He looked up to see a young man, outfitted similarly to himself, holding a straw tote bag and staring at him uncertainly.

“Ahem. What makes you think I—”

“Three hundred and ninety-eight point two square kilometers is the area of this island. Of course, I converted it from miles, we never did embrace the metric system in the States, but I assume the thought was ‘Three hundred and ninety-eight point two square kilometers on this island, and this guy had to pick a chair next to mine.’” He raised an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”

“Ah... no. You’re quite correct,” Sherlock said, intrigued. “But, it’s fine. Do sit down.”

“Thanks. Did your boyfriend force you to go on vacation, too?” the young man asked with a gesture toward Sherlock’s outfit as he sat down and stretched out his long limbs.

“Obviously.”

“Yeah, well. I guess we have to do this kind of thing sometimes—compromises, sacrifices. Just part of it.” He spoke idly as he leaned down and pulled a book out of a straw bag at his side.

“Part of what?” Sherlock asked, genuinely bewildered.

“Of being in a relationship. I didn’t get it, myself, for a long time. But now...” He shrugged. “He does stuff he doesn’t like to do for me all the time. I figured this was payback.” The young man smiled, a sunny, happy smile that was really quite attractive. “But, he’s worth it, you know? Hey, how’d your boyfriend talk you into it, anyway?”

“He bet me he could make me come within three minutes just by using one finger and a feather. How’d yours?”

“Sad puppy dog routine.”

“I’m sorry?”

Reid gave Sherlock a close approximation of the hopeful, woebegone expression that Morgan had pulled on him and then made a dismissive gesture. “What can I say, I’m a sucker. Every time, man, every time...”

“Ah. I—” Sherlock’s remark was cut short by John’s reappearance. He was carrying two ridiculous-looking drinks, one in each hand. They were served in huge goblets, creamy yellow liquid topped with white froth and a cherry, garnished with a spear of gaudy tropical fruit chunks, and a little paper umbrella sticking out on the side. John proffered one to Sherlock, who merely stared at it.

“What in God’s name is that?”

“It’s a pina colada, Sherlock, and do not give me a hard time about it.”

“It’s an abomination!”

“It’s delicious and, dare I say... fun. Pina coladas are fun. Just take it.”

Against his better judgment, Sherlock took the drink and continued to stare at it. “What’s the parasol for?”

“Haven’t a clue. Part of the fun, I imagine.”

“Using paper umbrellas as drink decorations started in 1932 at a tiki bar called Don the Beachcombers in Los Angeles.” The stranger spoke without looking up from his book. “The idea was to invoke the atmosphere of island culture. It’s possible the umbrella originally had a practical application, intended as shade to keep the drink cool, but now it’s just tradition.” 

Both Sherlock and Watson regarded the young man with some interest. He must have felt them looking at him, because he slowly lowered his book, raised his eyes, and then smiled. “I’m Spencer, by the way. You are?”

“John. And, this is Sherlock.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Sherlock continued to stare at Reid in consternation. Intelligent, obviously. He’d made no attempt to shake hands (Sherlock liked that) so, a bit off, socially. The clothes were not his usual of course, and he seemed stiff and uncomfortable in them, but he’d already revealed his reluctance to be there, so that offered no insight. He was in a happy long-term same-sex relationship, that was evident enough. But, what did he do for a living? Where was he from? Sherlock identified the accent as Western United States, but...

“Why don’t you ask him?” John said from where he was perched on the edge of Sherlock’s chair.

“Hmm?”

“You’re trying to figure him out—we’re on holiday, you can just ask him. Oh, hell, I’ll do it—Spencer, where are you from?”

“Las Vegas, originally. But, I live near D.C., now.”

“So, government employee,” Sherlock mused.

Reid pursed his lips. “Uh—right.” He returned to his book, effectively cutting short the line of inquiry. Sherlock shot John a meaningful glance. 

“Sensitive area,” he whispered. “Some sort of research facility, I suspect. Wonder what the boyfriend does.”

Just then, a tall dark-skinned man walked up. He was wearing only swim trunks, which was nice, because every part of his exposed body was exquisitely muscled and he was decorated with a number of tattoos. His face was gorgeous, and he flashed a million-dollar smile as he came up, bearing two of the same fruity drinks that John had brought.

“Here you go, pretty boy. Something to get you in the island mood.”

“Wow, thanks!” Spencer took his, but before he could take a sip, his partner leaned down and gave him a warm, loving kiss. Spencer smirked as he took a long draw on the straw. “Mm. That’s good.” He then pulled his boyfriend back down and kissed him deeply, letting the sweetness of the drink meld with their own flavors.

The two Brits watched the display in a combination of discomfort and envy. John nudged Sherlock. “Now, that’s the way to thank a person for bringing you a drink.”

“Oh, shut up.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose and took a tentative sip of his own drink. One eyebrow went up. “All right, this is quite refreshing. One point in your favor, John. Keep it up, perhaps you can earn another.”

“And, what’ll that get me?”

Sherlock just smiled.

Once Spencer’s boyfriend pulled out of the kiss, he asked, “Who’re your friends?”

“Oh, this is John and Sherlock. Guys, this is Derek.”

At that moment, a phone rang. Spencer scrounged in his bag and pulled out a battered flip phone. He frowned at the number, and then answered, “Hello?” He stood up and walked away from the group.

Sherlock was staring, agape. “He’s got a phone!” He turned an accusing look back at John. “His boyfriend allowed him a bloody phone,” he said as petulantly as any four-year-old.

“Perhaps his boyfriend isn’t inclined to sneak off on his own in order to find a murder mystery to solve,” John hissed in Sherlock’s ear. Looking at Derek, he said, “Spencer’s not a workaholic, then?”

Derek shrugged. “Oh, he is. I had to block our work number and threaten him with bodily harm if he made any outgoing calls. It’s just that he has a... family situation, and needs to be available if something comes up.” Now tense, Derek watched Spencer as he spoke on the phone, visibly relaxing when he saw the young man smile as he ended the call.

“Everything okay?” Derek asked as Spencer returned.

“Yeah, they wanted to take her into town to shop, but the release they have on file is out of date. I had to give verbal permission.”

“She’s doing pretty good, then, huh?”

Spencer nodded. “They finally got her meds on track again. My mother,” he said, addressing Sherlock and John. “She’s in a care facility.” He didn’t offer any further explanation as he returned his phone to the bag and started to sit down.

“Don’t get comfortable, babe. The ocean’s just a few steps away, and I want to get wet. Come on.” Derek started walking, but Spencer stood in place. 

“Uh... I don’t really think it’s a good idea right now.”

“Why?”

“We just had a full moon.”

Morgan gave a mock-sympathetic nod. “Werewolves?”

Both Sherlock and Reid answered at once: “Jellyfish.” Spencer glanced approvingly at Sherlock and added, “They’re present all the time, but they tend to swarm most heavily shortly after the full moon.” He paused, expecting agreement from Morgan, but got only silence. “Jellyfish stings are really painful,” he pointed out.

Both Derek and John rolled their eyes. 

Derek shook his head. “Now, babe, I was down there earlier—there’re plenty of people on the beach, and none of them are rolling around in agony. I think it’s pretty safe,” he said soothingly.

Spencer stood pat for a moment, considering. Then he reached for his bag. “Well, I’ve got a first aid kit in here, so I guess it’ll be all right. Let’s go. See you later, Sherlock, John.”

“Which room are you guys in?” Derek asked the other couple.

“We’re 107,” John replied.

“Cool—we’re neighbors. We’re in 105. See ya!”

The two headed toward the beach, Derek slinging an arm around Spencer’s shoulders and Spencer leaning into him. John watched their easy affection for each other, and tried to imagine a day when he and Sherlock might attain something close to it. He started to say something, but Sherlock made a loud slurping noise as he sucked down the rest of his pina colada, and the moment just didn’t seem right.

John sat perched on the edge of Sherlock’s chair for a long time, trying to put his thoughts in order. But by the time he’d properly formulated a sentence, the unheard of was happening—Sherlock had actually fallen asleep and was snoring lightly. 

John sighed.

Definitely not the right time.


	2. Dinner and a Stroll on the Beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who welcomed this little fic! Some sexy stuff in this chapter. Oh, and I don't own Sherlock, John Watson, Spencer Reid or Derek Morgan, sadly...

That evening, John escorted Sherlock to what he had been assured was the finest restaurant on the island. It was housed in a large, open, thatched-roof structure, palapa-style, and it was packed full, abuzz with the exuberant conversation of vacationing diners.

They were shown to a table, and sat in silence until the server came with menus. Sherlock glanced at his for approximately ten seconds, and then promptly ordered a steak, rare. John chose something that involved pork and pineapple, and then fixed Sherlock with an inquiring frown.

"Thought you wanted something exotic," he said.

"I suspect ordering steak a day's flight from the presence of a cow will prove sufficiently exotic."

John eyed a nearby patron's plate. "You ought to have given the fish a go, it looks wonderful. Healthy, too. Wouldn't hurt to improve your diet, you know. Half the time you don't eat, and when you do, it's absolute rubbish."

Sherlock didn't bother with a response; his eyes were on the entryway, searching, searching. Something interesting had to happen eventually; these were  _people,_  right? Disappointingly, the fact that the majority of them were gay didn't at all seem to have improved the odds of their being entertaining, however. Most of them were in a holiday spirit, laughing and talking, not mulling over potential murders or bank heists or... well, anything, really, except for sex. Sex seemed to be hanging ripely in the air, couples sitting with hands entwined, kissing and cuddling going on in every secluded nook of the restaurant.

John was watching Sherlock; as enigmatic as the man could be, there was no mistaking what was on his mind now, he was  _bored,_  and looking for relief. John shook his head, determined to start the conversation he'd hoped they would have already had. "Sherlock—"

"Well, well, look who it is—our neighbors, Spencer and Derek. Didn't bother to change for dinner."

"Neither did we."

"No, but they've clearly just come in from swimming, Spencer's hair's still wet. Interesting..."

John took in a great lungful of air. "Why is that interesting? Because, honestly, I can assure you that it is not."

"They're supposed to be a couple here on a wild, romantic getaway, yet they didn't bother to go back to their room for pre-dinner sex."

John pursed his lips. "Neither... did...  _we."_

Utterly oblivious to John's irritation, Sherlock continued to ponder. "What do you suppose they do?"

John's smirked. "I can't pretend to have any insight into that, but my guess is that Spencer prefers to bottom."

"Oh, get your mind out of the gutter. For a living, I mean."

"Thought you'd already deduced that Spencer has some sort of top secret government research job."

"No, no. Didn't you hear what Derek said about the phone?"

"That Spencer's a workaholic...? So?"

"No, after that. He said he had to block their work number.  _Their,_  John. Means they work together."

John got that familiar feeling of being sucked into one of Sherlock's puzzles. He tried to brush it away, but found himself following along, as usual. "All right, so they work together at the research facility. So what?"

"Wrong. Derek is not a scientist. Oh, he could be if it interested him, but it doesn't. The way he holds himself, the time and discipline it takes to get that amazing body—I'd be inclined to think ex-military, like you, but that's not quite it."

"You noticed his amazing body?" John asked, unsure how he felt about that.

"Of course, who wouldn't? But, that's not the point. The point is, I believe he's in some branch of law enforcement."

"How'd you figure?"

"One, the way he surveyed us as he walked up; he's accustomed to analyzing the scene, searching for possible threats. Two, the callouses on his right hand indicate frequent use of a firearm, but it's a pistol, not a rifle, which is the sort of weapon typically issued to front-line infantry."

"Ah. All right, so perhaps he's a police officer and Spencer works a desk job."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not at all. Derek's no beat cop. He's used to working behind the scenes, thinking, assessing—acting, not reacting..."

"You got all that from him bringing his boyfriend a drink?"

"His boyfriend's extraordinarily intelligent, didn't want to come here any more than I did, and yet—he's here, and he's having a good time. Derek obviously understands the human psyche, really knows what he's doing."

"Obviously, more so than I..." John said softly.

"Hm? Oh, just so. But, the tricky bit is that they don't... go together. Not as workmates, and not as a couple..."

"How d'you mean?"

"Derek's athletic, outgoing, loves sports."

"How did you—"

"Chicago Bulls tattoo on left shoulder. Spencer, clearly, is cerebral, loves books, pursuits of the mind. What'd you suppose they talk about in bed?"

"Uh..."

"And, what sort of law enforcement agency would allow that long hair? No, it doesn't make sense. Oh!" Sherlock suddenly brightened. "Maybe they're not a couple at all... Maybe they're under cover!"

"Oh, Sherlock..."

"Maybe they're on a case! Oh, yes. This could be quite interesting. Have to keep an eye on them."

John ran a hand over his brow. "Sherlock, that is highly unlikely. But even if it's so, they're not going to want you interfering in something you know nothing about."

"No, of course not, I wouldn't. I just want to know what it is they're up to..."

John glanced at the couple in question. Derek was holding Spencer's hand, and they were leaning in toward each other, smiling. "They're quite good, if they're only faking it."

"Mm. Well, we shall see what develops."

The food arrived at that moment, and to John's surprise, Sherlock tucked into his immediately, even favoring John with a genuine smile as he cut into his meat.

John didn't know how to feel about that, either.

* * *

Spencer and Derek decided to go for a stroll on the beach after dinner. They ambled along, the stretch becoming less and less crowded the further away from the resort they went. Eventually, they found themselves completely alone in a sort of cove, secluded by a rock formation. They stopped to stare out into the vast darkness of the ocean, decorated by the silvery reflection of the moon. Spencer was quiet, unusual for him, and Derek regarded him for a moment before putting his hands on Spencer's shoulders and turning him so he could look into his eyes.

"You okay, kid? Get too much sun?"

"No, I'm fine. Just a little tired."

Derek nodded, and they turned back to the water, momentarily hypnotized by the sound of waves lapping in on the sand. Spencer tentatively stepped away to put his feet in, seeming to enjoy the splashes of cold against his legs.

"Kind of sexy, isn't it?" Derek said, eying Spencer's rear end appreciatively. He came up to join him, putting an arm around his waist as he added, "It'd be cool to lie down and make love right here, let the waves wash over us, me inside you..." His voice had a hopeful undertone, not lost on Spencer. He teasingly nudged Derek with his elbow.

"No way. All that thrashing around would attract sharks."

Derek laughed softly. "Excuses, excuses..."

Spencer laughed too. "Maybe tomorrow night. I'll be in a little more of an adventurous mood after a good night's sleep."

Derek smiled sympathetically. "I hear you. Want to go back to the room now? I'm kind of beat myself, to be honest."

"Yeah, I think so. Sounds good."

Derek gave him a quick smooch before turning to head back toward the resort, Spencer's hand in his.

* * *

After finishing every bite of his steak and not touching a single morsel of the salad or freshly steamed vegetables on the side (causing John to annoyingly launch into a lecture on the importance of fiber in the diet) Sherlock insisted on taking a solitary walk, himself. Said all the digesting was interfering with his thought processes, and that he needed time alone to get them sorted. John had inexplicably thrown his hands in the air and said fine, he'd be in the room, in the unlikely event that Sherlock should have need of him.

Sherlock triangulated the two Americans' location and managed to dog their steps unseen. When they reached the cove, he followed, staying out of view behind the rocks, but he arrived only just in time to hear the last of their conversation.  _Back to the room,_  Sherlock thought. Hmm...

He zipped back to the resort hotel and stood in front of number 105, fumbling in his pocket for a credit card. He'd already assessed the poor level of security on the guest room doors; they still used actual keys, and he was easily able to let himself into Derek and Spencer's room by sliding the card along the latch at just the right angle. Since he'd gotten nothing from the damnable moonlight stroll, a little eavesdropping was still in order, he thought. Nothing too invasive, they were tired and likely to fall into bed pretty quickly. And, as a bonus, Spencer had that phone...

It was dark, but their room had the same layout as his and John's, with thick long curtains on the windows. He quickly ensconced himself behind one, making his muscles still so as not to draw attention. There was a gap between the panels that allowed him to see into the room unnoticed.

Soon, the two men entered and a light came on. Sherlock saw Spencer place his straw bag on the dresser near the door.

"Come'ere, babe." Morgan tipped Reid's head back, examining him carefully. "Ah, see? Just like I said—not even a little pink." He kissed Reid's nose and ran his hands over his boyfriend's torso. "No jellyfish bites, either. No shark wounds. And, no sign of coconut mites, am I right?" He grinned teasingly. Reid grinned back, but it faded quickly, causing Morgan to frown.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Spencer—I know you a little too well to buy that. I mean, you've been quiet all evening, that's not like you. Come on, tell me. What's up?"

Spencer looked at the floor and shrugged, increasing Derek's concern. "Spencer..." he sighed worriedly. He pulled the younger man into an embrace and ran one hand through his thick tangle of soft brown curls, his thumb landing on a slightly raised bit of flesh on his scalp—a long-healed scar from where he'd been bashed in the head by a psychopath with multiple personalities. _"Fucking Henkel."_  The bitter thought flashed through Morgan's mind for the thousandth time. He gave Reid an extra-hard hug.

"Is it the old stuff? I bet we could scare up a meeting. Might have to settle for AA instead of NA, but—"

Sherlock's ears pricked up.

"I don't need a meeting. I'm fine," Reid answered tiredly.

"Okay, well, are you mad at me? Is it because—aw, damn it. I shouldn't have made you come here, right? You're having a shitty time and it's all my fault. I'm sorry, I just wanted to—"

"No, Derek, this is wonderful, amazing... Honest, it's nothing, it's just me. I'm weird, and I don't want to upset you with my... weirdness. I'll be fine. Let it go."

Derek gave an exasperated huff. "So, you'd rather upset me by not telling me about something that's got _you_  upset? That doesn't work for me at all, kid." He put one hand under Spencer's chin and tilted his face upward. "Please tell me what's going on."

Spencer took a long moment before he spoke. "It's just... When I talked to Mom's doctor, he told me how great she's been doing. She's been lucid and she's been asking about me. It's been so long since I've seen her..." He left the thought hanging, and a look of understanding came over Derek. The giant knot in his stomach dissolved; _this_  he could handle.

"And, here you are in a tropical paradise, eating great food and playing in the ocean... with me."

Spencer looked into Derek's eyes. "Yeah. Don't get me wrong—this is great! I really don't want to be anywhere else right now. But..."

"You feel guilty."

Spencer nodded. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry! You love your mom, I know how it is. Now, listen—I booked us here for seven days. How about we leave after five, and make a side trip to Vegas to see her on the way back. Would that be okay?"

Spencer's eyes widened. "Derek, no! The package is non-refundable, you paid in advance, and the cost of changing the flight alone is—"

"It's okay. The money doesn't matter. I'd rather have five days of you here, happy, than seven with you being miserable. Jeeze—come over here." Derek led him to the bed and they sat down. "You really don't have a clue how much I love you, do you?"

"Uh... no, probably not."

"My little genius. Maybe I can show you." Derek smiled and pulled Spencer into his arms. He kissed him, the most tender, loving kiss Sherlock had ever witnessed. It wasn't sexual—Derek's hands never strayed from gently gripping Spencer's face with one, and holding him in a strong, protective embrace with the other. Spencer kissed him back just as tenderly, just as lovingly, and when they broke the kiss, they hugged each other tightly, Spencer burying his face in the crook of Derek's neck as the older man traced comforting patterns on his back.

Sherlock had been following the conversation and the ensuing kiss with a clinical detachment; it was somewhat interesting, all the emotions flowing between the two men, the words they used, the ones that clearly went unspoken. They'd obviously endured some difficult times together, and Sherlock idly wondered what it was they'd been through, what, exactly, was wrong with Spencer's mother, and what had led the innocent-looking young man to a narcotics addiction. And, how they'd been lucky enough to find each other.

But, as they kissed, as they held each other, a nagging, itchy thought crept into Sherlock's mind— _I wish John would kiss me like that._  For a moment, he imagined John holding him that way, stroking his back and hugging him so tenderly, with such care. Then a flash of realization hit him.  _Oh, bloody hell,_ Sherlock thought.  _He_ has.  _He's kissed me exactly like that, he's taken me in his arms in just that way, and I... I pushed him aside. Impatient sod, I demanded he take off his clothes and get on with it, I..._

How many times had it happened? How many times had he brushed John's lips with only the most cursory of kisses in hopes that he would go busy himself and leave Sherlock to his musings? How often did John attempt to, to  _woo_  him, offering him warm hugs, soothing back rubs, only to be told he was annoying, a distraction, a cloying wet flannel determined to waste Sherlock's time?

Too often.

Not lately, though. Not much gentle wooing going on in the last few weeks—months?—at all. John had plainly given up.

Or, had he? Another realization hit Sherlock. No, this trip, this infernal trip—the bewildering conversation John kept attempting to have with him—was this his last ditch effort to... to what? Sherlock frowned, his mind racing over the last forty-eight hours. How eager John had been about a shopping trip (which Sherlock had refused to accompany him on), how excited he'd been about packing (which Sherlock hadn't lifted a finger to help with).

How he'd kept trying to show Sherlock the brochure, how he'd said... what had he said? Oh, yes— _"Do you see? It's a place where no one will stare, Sherlock. We can be ourselves there, we can do what we like, just as straight couples do, without being made to feel like freaks. And, it'll be just us, away from everything. We can get to know each other all over again."_

Absurd rubbish, Sherlock had thought at the time. Pure nonsense, such ridiculous romantic notions, the sort of fanciful ideas John tended to come up with every so often. But now... he'd spent all this money. He'd stolen Sherlock's phone, and bribed Lestrade—well, probably. He'd brought him that silly, but delicious, frou-frou drink, and then that expensive meal, and...

Oh.

The other thing. Sherlock's third demand, sex. No wonder John'd thrown his hands up. He must have hoped Sherlock would go back to the room with him, and instead he'd imperiously informed him that he was going to go for a walk...

_Alone._

Bollocks. He had to get out of there, had to get out and find John and... and  _talk_  to him, talk to him before it was too late. It wasn't too late, surely? Surely, he could mend things with him, set things right before something very not-good happened.

Deep in his musings, Sherlock had almost forgotten about the two other men in the room, when the light abruptly went off, and the wet noises of someone performing oral sex on another someone started up. Sherlock peeked past the curtain and in the dim yellow light coming through a window, he saw Derek on his knees in front of Spencer, Spencer with his head thrown back, legs spread wide, moaning.

"Derek, please... It's too much. I want you inside me, let me... Stop, let's get undressed..."

Sherlock grimaced impatiently and leaned his head against the window frame. He heard clothes being dropped on the floor, the bed creaking, the sound of someone rummaging in a suitcase, and then, the unmistakable crinkle of a condom being opened.

Now, kissing noises, loads more moaning,  _God_ , it went on and on and on. Then a heavy shift of bodies, a grunt, and then the headboard began banging against the wall and the bed started creaking in a fast, steady rhythm.

Sherlock carefully peered around the curtain and saw Derek on top of Spencer, his bare arse rapidly thrusting up and down as the younger man wrapped his legs more tightly around Derek's waist. Much groaning; a sigh, an "Oh, God!" followed by whispered endearments...

Sherlock moved ghost-like from his hiding place and hugged the wall as he made his way to the door.

He slid his hand in the bag and picked up Spencer's phone before stealthily turning the door handle when he heard a startled gasp. He looked behind him to see Spencer looking at him from over Derek's shoulder, eyes wide, mouth open.

Sherlock put his finger to his lips and waggled the phone, pantomiming that he was only borrowing it. He heard Derek breathlessly ask, "You okay, babe? Did I hurt you?"

Sherlock slipped out the door before he could hear Spencer answer, "N-no. I'm fine—just thought I saw something. It's okay, keep going, Derek. I'm getting close."

Neither Derek nor Sherlock saw the flash of anger in Spencer's eyes.

 


	3. Sunshine, Roses, and a Burgled Phone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahoy, there be smut in this one!

Sherlock found his key to room 107. When he opened the door, John was standing in front of the bed, suitcase open before him. He was folding a shirt as meticulously as he had placed it on a hanger a mere few hours earlier.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock demanded.

John chuckled. "Ah, there we have it. The great Sherlock Holmes, able to deduce a man's occupation by the calluses on his fingers, but can't suss out what it is I'm up to." He shot Sherlock an amused glance. "I'm packing, Sherlock," he said, not unkindly.

"I can see that. What I'm trying to ascertain as to is  _why."_

John shrugged. "Bit obvious, isn't it? I'm done."

"Done? With what?"

"Oh, please. With this." Seeing Sherlock's still confused expression, John added softly, "I mean, let's be honest. It's not working, is it?" John made a small indistinct gesture which could have referred to almost anything, the air conditioner, the paint scheme on the walls, his and Sherlock's relationship...

Sherlock felt his heart plummet into his stomach. It was a strange feeling, so different from his normal repertoire of emotions, all of which had been carefully analyzed and catalogued and rated (i.e., compassion? Good. Sympathy? Good. Jealousy? Bad. Useful stuff.) This, however, was different to the point of Sherlock being at a complete loss as to how to respond. So, he said nothing.

John filled in the space as he began folding another shirt.

"It's no use, I can see that now. Better to give up, right? Cut our losses while we can still be friends." He looked up, his lips still twisted in amusement, whether from self-deprecation or pleasure at finally causing Sherlock a little pain for a change, he couldn't know. But, it hurt.

"Don't you agree?" John prodded. He paused, the shirt half-done, and met Sherlock's eyes.

"I... John, no. Don't.  _Please."_  He hissed the last word in a whisper. Sherlock felt as if he were being choked.

John's eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head slightly. "I'm sorry?" It was a query, not a statement, Sherlock understood that. So, he muddled on.

"I don't want to give up, not yet."

"Seriously? I thought you'd be pleased."

Sherlock looked as though John had just slapped him.  _"Pleased?_  Oh, my God, is it that bad? What a mess I've made of things..." Stricken, he went to John and put his hands on his shoulders and locked his eyes with his.

"I don't blame you for wanting to, of course. I've been... stupid. Stupid, and stubborn, and, what's that other thing you always say, oh, selfish. I've been very, very selfish. I swear, I thought I was trying, I really did. But, I wasn't. At least, not very hard. Clearly, not hard enough."

John's face was now scrunched in utter bewilderment. "Sherlock, what in God's name are you on about?  _What_  were you trying to do?"

"To make you happy." Sherlock dropped his hands and tried to gain control over his breathing. "I wanted to do that all along, you know. Thought I was, for a bit. After all, there was a time when you seemed... Oh, God..." He seemed hit by a revelation, and he clenched his hands in self-disgust. "Things must have changed! And I didn't see it, didn't notice—too busy with my own damnable goings-on, I suppose.  _Stupid_  git, stupid." He gestured angrily, and began striding about the room, his dolphin trunks making a desperate swishing noise between his legs. "Then, you brought me here, and I was so thick I didn't realize—but now I do. And, I don't blame you for wanting to. But, I'm begging you, John, please don't."

"Don't...? Don't  _what?"_

"Leave me. Please... don't... leave me."

John dropped the shirt and strode over to his lover. "Sherlock, I'm not leaving you—have you gone mad? I love you. You saved me, you mean everything to me. I'm not going anywhere without you." He reached up and put one hand on Sherlock's cheek and gently thumbed the soft skin over hard bone. Sherlock stared.

"But... But, you're packing, and you said we should give up—"

"On this effing holiday! Oh, God. You thought I meant... _us?"_

Sherlock nodded miserably.

"Oh, my love, no! Come here." John took Sherlock's hand and led him to the bed. He sat him down and then did the same, taking Sherlock's hands in his. "Sherlock, you drive me insane. You scare me, you frustrate me, and you make me angrier than anyone I've ever known. But, all of that is because I love you, and I'm terrified of losing you. Don't you know that?"

"I-I don't quite think I do, no."

"Well, it's true." John leaned in and gave him a gentle kiss, using his lips to softly, tenderly, caress Sherlock's, the warmth of his tongue slipping between the detective's lips. Sherlock was stunned for a moment, and then something like muscle memory kicked in and he threw himself into John's arms and kissed him back for all he was worth.

John felt as if the floor had just given way beneath his feet, but he quickly recovered and matched Sherlock's enthusiasm whole hog.

When they both sat back to catch their breaths, John gave Sherlock a thoroughly puzzled look and asked, "What the hell brought this on, anyway?"

"Spencer and Derek."

John's eyebrows shot up. "Oh—I see. The beautiful man with the amazing body, and his lover, the one with the massive intellect that might rival yours." He nodded, muttering, "That's bloody fantastic. Not worrisome at all."

Sherlock frowned and shook his head impatiently. "No, no. I mean, I've been observing them, they're  _happy._  Both of them. And, Spencer said... well, never mind what he said, but he got me thinking. And I realized how... How I've been treating you lately."

"Ah. And, how is it you've been treating me?"

"Oh... you know. Badly."

"Badly?"

"Yes. The demands. The taking you for granted and all that. Being a horse's arse to you. Which you don't deserve. At all."

John leaned back and regarded Sherlock intently. It didn't seem possible, some things just never happen and you don't expect them to happen, but then they sort of do, and then you're... "Sherlock, are you  _apologizing_  to me?"

Sherlock flinched. "No... I'm simply explaining—wait, do you want me to apologize to you?"

"Uh..."

"Because I will. But, I wasn't, exactly. I was explaining, that's all."

John took a deep, exasperated breath. "All right. Explaining what, exactly?"

"Oh, for God's sake, John, do try to keep up! I'm explaining why I thought you were about to leave me, of course. Which I don't want you to do, in case I haven't made myself clear on the subject."

"You have." John smiled. "And, I won't. Ever. I promise." He gave Sherlock another sweet kiss, but Sherlock continued to look at him despairingly. John felt a surge of frustration.

"What the devil is wrong now?"

"John. You're so good and kind, and so very, very patient. But, one day... It's only a matter of time, really. One day, you'll grow tired of me and all my diversions, and then—"

"Stop." John's voice had taken on a low, serious tone. "Do you honestly think I didn't know what I was getting myself into when we became lovers? Do you really think I expected you'd fall head-over-heels in love with me, and that everything would be sunshine and roses afterwards?"

Sherlock face twisted into an uncertain frown. "I—" John put a finger on Sherlock's lip.

"Shhh. Just listen, for once. I  _know_  you. I know how you are, and I know  _what_  you are. Brilliant, mad, infuriating... And, everything I ever wanted. I wouldn't change you. Not for anything."

"But, don't you see—I  _am_  in love with you. And, I want you to be happy. I mean, I've never concerned myself with such things before, isn't really my area, but I  _can_  change. I  _can_  be better. I'll do whatever you want, I just... I just don't have a clue as to what that might be. Please—tell me what you want."

John didn't answer for what seemed like eons to Sherlock, but then he reached out and cupped Sherlock's face. "This."

"I'm sorry?"

 _"This._  You looking at me like I'm the most important thing in the world to you. You, looking at me with as much interest and fascination as you look at a severed head in our refrigerator."

"But—"

"Your attention, Sherlock. That's what I want. Not all the time, I don't expect that. But, _sometimes_. Sometimes when I take you in my arms, I'd like to feel as if I were the only thing in the world that mattered to you. The only thing you cared about. That's why I wanted us to come here—I thought that, maybe, away from all the distractions, I could have your full attention and we could talk, and then perhaps you'd actually hear me. I thought, maybe, that I could make you understand how..." John sighed. "...how superfluous I've been feeling."

 _Superfluous._  Sherlock's mind reeled. How many shrugged-off embraces? How many tender kisses barely tolerated, and how often had the man who loved him unconditionally been summarily dismissed so he could think... A thousand little memories came flooding in, and he cringed inside, ashamed. "I'm so sorry." His deep, rich voice sounded gravelly.

"Don't be," John said lightly. "Not your fault. You can't help being a self-centered, self-absorbed, thoughtless, inconsiderate, uh..."

"Selfish."

"Oh, yes, _selfish_  egomaniac, can you?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, disregarding the humor and pondering John's words with absolute gravity. He was silent until suddenly a flash of inspiration lit up his face. "Of course! You're right—I can't help being what I am, but... I can _refresh the page."_

"I'm sorry?"

"Refresh the page! You know, reload it. Or, better yet, give it a reboot!"

"What?"

"The old hard-drive!" Sherlock tapped his head delightedly. "Needed a quick reboot, and damned if this wretched holiday wasn't just the thing." Sherlock beamed. "You're quite clever, John, you really are. I'm impressed."

"Uh..."

"Don't you see? You knew I needed to see things from a different angle, but I was stuck with the same old bad code mucking everything up. Being in this godawful wasteland got it sorted, defragged, so to speak, and now I—we—can start fresh, just as you intended. You're brilliant!" Sherlock grabbed John and kissed him deeply. John felt himself melt against him, and when Sherlock let him up for air, he rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I only wanted a bit of sun, actually. But, this is fine, too. Better, really." He pulled back and looked up at the detective, who had a smug grin on his face.

"Excellent. Now, about the sex."

"Sex?"

"You promised me sex, John, anything I want. Remember?"

John sat up straighter, nodding as he pulled himself together after so much emotional turmoil. "Ah, yes, right. So, what'll it be? Handcuffs? Blindfold? I packed the riding crop... Or, shall I scrounge up a feather or two?"

The smugness faded from Sherlock's face, replaced with a wry smile. "I want to know what  _you_  want."

John held his gaze for a moment, feeling somewhat nonplussed. Then, he smiled back. "I want to make love to you, Sherlock.  _Slowly._  I want to know that while you're in my arms, you're thinking only of me, of how I'm making you feel. And, I don't want either of us to come away with any bruises, contusions, or... abrasions in the process," he said, ruefully fingering a spot on his knee that had managed to suffer quite a case of rug-burn several months ago.

Sherlock's smile deepened. "Tell me how you want me."

John regarded him thoughtfully for a moment before answering. "On your back. When I'm inside you, I want to be able to look at your gorgeous face, into those astonishing ocean-colored eyes. And, I want to kiss you." When Sherlock gave him an involuntary frown of distaste, John added, "Oh, yes, the kissing, I know. Perverted, isn't it? Just a sick fantasy of mine. But, I hope you'll indulge me."

Sherlock laughed softly. "Of course. But, first, perhaps you'll allow me to indulge in a little favorite of my own? I've noticed it seems to be one of yours, as well..." Without waiting for an answer, he dropped to his knees. He tugged at John's swim trunks until he lifted himself, allowing Sherlock to pull them down.

Sherlock took John's still-soft cock in his hand. He began stroking it, a gentle tease at first, gradually increasing the tightness of his grip and the speed of the strokes until John was fully hard. Then, he took him in his mouth and began sucking him, filling his mouth and nudging at the back of his throat with the velvety flesh.

The sudden explosion of feelings robbed John's mind of all thought. For a while, he just sat with his hands enmeshed in Sherlock's dark curls, making slight thrusts forward in rhythm with the delicious pressure being exerted by Sherlock's lips and tongue as he slid them slickly back and forth over John's swollen member.

But, he couldn't stand it for long; it became too intense, too powerful. "Stop, Sherlock, stop. I'm going to come, and I don't want to, not yet. Let's get in bed. Please."

Sherlock obeyed, fluidly pulling back and standing up in one motion. He licked his friction-buzzed lips, taking a moment to savor John's beloved, familiar taste, and then quickly undressed. He lay down while John went for the necessary supplies.

Soon, they were in their own world, Sherlock lying on his back with his knees raised and spread wide as John gently prepared him, first stroking him erect, then lubing and stretching him open, kissing him all the while. He moved lower, nibbling at his neck, lapping and sucking at his nipples, teasing the tip of his tongue over the dark trail of hair on Sherlock's belly. Every new movement seemed to strike a string of excitement deep inside Sherlock, reverberating into his very core; it didn't take long before Sherlock was writhing under him.

"Now, John," Sherlock breathed.

John chuckled. "Patience, my love. I've only just gotten started." He moved lower still and used his mouth to attend to Sherlock's erection, gripping the base with one hand and unhurriedly lapping over the straining length, sucking at the head, gently pressing in with his teeth until Sherlock hissed with need.

Mercifully, John finally raised up and mounted him, easing into him, letting him adjust to the deep intrusion into his lithe body. It seemed to take forever for John to get in to the hilt, and Sherlock soon snapped in frustration, "Oh, God, _please_  don't be gentle with me! I can't bear it..."

John took Sherlock's chin and made him look up at him. "Yes, you can, and you will. You asked me what I want—and it's this. I will not rush. It's always over so quickly—I want to give my brain a chance to catch up with everything I'm feeling. I want to let it build up and wash over me so I can savor it. And you, you're going to do the same."

Aching for release, Sherlock thrust uselessly under him, digging his fingers into the soft curve of John's buttocks while pushing his hips upward against him. "But, I can't, I can't... need you so..."

"You have me." He buried his tongue in Sherlock's mouth and gave him a series of soft, gentle thrusts that seemed to drive the detective into a state of frenzied desperation. "Do you trust me?" he murmured.

Sherlock pulled his mouth away long enough to gasp, "Yes."

"Then, let me take you the way I want. I promise—I'll give you what you need. But only in good time. Okay?" John looked into Sherlock's eyes with a quizzical expression, and Sherlock blinked for a moment before giving the most reluctant little nod imaginable. John smiled and almost fully withdrew before plunging in hard, bringing forth a yelp of appreciation from Sherlock. He then let his cock linger deep inside as he kissed him.

John varied the speed, depth, and intensity of his lovemaking, and it made Sherlock insane. Maddeningly, during a lovely good bit of deep hard thrusting, John would stop to kiss him. Sherlock's mouth and lips were already so sensitive that he thought the mere brush of a butterfly's wing would make him come, but at just the moment when Sherlock's every nerve was focused on what John was doing to his mouth, John would pull back and redouble his efforts in filling Sherlock's desperately clenching nether region.

Sherlock had dispensed with the use of words—orders, pleas, bargaining, nothing did the slightest bit of good in getting John to move at any pace other than exactly what he saw fit. The detective was reduced to guttural grunts, high-pitched whines, sharp gasps and low groans, all of which John seemed to feed off of as he played him like a cheap violin.

To Sherlock's amazement, it all coalesced at once—his brain finally relinquished control over to his body, and he was flooded with sensations that throbbed through him, building into something more intense than he'd ever experienced before, taking him to the very top of an impossibly high mountain. There was a moment of utter clarity, an intake of breath just before he knew he would be blissfully allowed to drop over the edge...

And then, the door opened.

* * *

One name went through Sherlock's sex-addled mind— _"Moriarty!"_  —even though he knew that was impossible. Even as he forced his eyes to open and focus on the tall, slender figure coming through the door, he knew that was wrong.

Sure enough, the man who had just used a credit card to let himself into John and Sherlock's room was only their neighbor, a swimming trunks-clad Spencer.

"I—Oh, God." Spencer hastily averted his eyes from the naked and still deeply-joined pair on the bed. "I want my phone.  _Now,"_  he announced grimly to the ceiling. "Where is it?"

"Oh, _bugger._  Blue dressing gown, right pocket," Sherlock groaned around John's shoulder and gestured toward a chair where he'd thrown his clothes. John was too stunned to speak, but he pulled out, flipped over onto his back and scrambled to drag a sheet up over them. John stared in dismay as Spencer fished his property out of Sherlock's robe and held it up triumphantly.

John turned to Sherlock, his face a bright red.

"You stole his  _phone?"_  he blurted out.

"Borrowed it, John. I  _borrowed_  it. I had Spencer's full permission, didn't I, Spencer?" Sherlock was breathing heavily, but he spoke calmly and fixed his version of a conciliatory smile on his face at Spencer's irate look. The young man rolled his eyes.

"Oh, sure. If you want to call breaking into my room while I'm having sex with my boyfriend and rifling through my personal belongings getting my permission, then, absolutely." He gave a disgusted sneer and turned to leave. He paused at the door, turned back and said to John, "You do realize he's a sociopath, right? A guy who'd pull something like this is capable of anything. I'd keep an eye on him, if I were you. I recommend a leash." He then went out and slammed the door behind him.

"Cheers!" Sherlock called after him.

John looked to be in the throes of apoplexy. "You  _wretched_  bastard! What the hell did you do?"

"Oh, pinching the phone was an afterthought, I merely let myself into their room and hid behind the curtain because I wanted to know if they were really a couple, remember, John? And, I can now assure you that they most certainly are, they were shagging away like rabbits."

Sherlock wouldn't have thought it possible, but John's face went even redder. "You stayed in there while they—did you  _watch_  them?"

"Certainly not." He pondered a moment before adding, "I mean, I  _listened_  a bit. And, of course, one can't help but catch a glimpse on one's way out the door, you know. Oh, and incidentally, you were right about Spencer bottoming, good call. Although, it was rather obvious."

John made a dramatic pleading gesture to the heavens. "We haven't even been here 24 hours and you've already committed burglary, theft, and an act of perversion! Not to mention completely disregarding my wishes about contacting the outside world!"

"I didn't  _use_  the phone, and anyway, that was all before the reboot. I wouldn't do it now, especially since you've managed to find such a delightful way to keep me entertained." He forcefully snuggled himself into John's arms, resting his head on his chest. "Honestly, John, this is all quite irrelevant. Can't we just get on with the shagging? I really do want to reach orgasm sometime before the monsoon season hits..."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock... You're hopeless! Absolutely incorrigible, not to mention a colossal pain in the arse, you know that?"

"Oh, look who's talking, I shall barely be able to walk upright tomorrow, the way you've been going at it," Sherlock said with relish. "I suspect Spencer will be in a similar condition, I notice he's already limping a bit. Not that it's all bad; we can nurse our sore bums lying on a blanket out by the ocean, while our lovers bring us frou-frou drinks and feed us lovely bits of pineapple and papaya, whatever the hell that is."

John's state of fury dissolved in an instant. "Wait—does that mean you're willing to stay here, then?"

Sherlock's self-satisfied, dreamy tone evaporated. "I didn't say that, did I?"

"I inferred it."

"Actually..." Sherlock took a deep breath, and an unfamiliar sense of tenderness came over him. "Actually, John, yes, I want to stay. I'll stay as long as you like. And, I'll... I'll enjoy myself. Because, we're together. Nothing else really matters, I see that now. You... you  _made_  me see that. Thank you." Unbidden, a smile came over him and for some unexplained reason, he felt... happy.

John was left somewhat bewildered as to the thread of the conversation, but he looked at the hopeful smile on Sherlock's face and realized—he was witnessing evidence of Sherlock  _trying._ Trying to change, trying to do as John wished for a change. In a flash, John's heart felt full to bursting. He put his arm around Sherlock's bare shoulders and pulled him close.

"Sherlock... My God, that is so... so good of you, but I know you really want to get back to London. I understand, and I think we accomplished exactly what I'd hoped we'd do here, so I'll go to the reservations office and cancel everything. I'll book us a flight for tomorrow morning, and we'll be back at 221B in time to have Mrs. Hudson give us tea. How would that be?"

To John's surprise, Sherlock looked over at him and frowned. "But—you were having fun, weren't you? And, we haven't even gone in the ocean yet. There's a lovely little cove I found where we could have sex under the stars, assuming Spencer and Derek aren't making use of it, and I really did want to have another pina colada, and..."

"You mean... you really do want to stay?"

"Uh... yes, strangely enough. I do."

John smiled. "I tell you what. I'll go revise the arrangements for a five-day stay instead. How would that be?"

Sherlock beamed. "Perfect." Then, his brow wrinkled and he asked hesitantly, "John—is this what's meant by 'compromising,' in regards to a relationship?"

"I believe so, yes."

Sherlock made a thoughtful "hmpf" sound. "Not nearly as horrific as I thought it'd be."

"Yeah—perhaps we can even make a habit of it." John watched a doubtful expression come over Sherlock's face, and he laughed. "I love you, Sherlock."

"I love you, too, John. Now, can we get back to..."

"I may need a minute. But, yes."


	4. Early Morning Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! I've so enjoyed getting these guys together--thank you for the comments and kudos!

Just before dawn, Derek woke up with Spencer snuggled in his arms. Derek smiled, a flood of gratitude flowing through him, just as it did every morning when he was allowed to wake up like this. Derek ran a hand through the tangle of honey-colored curls resting on Spencer's neck, teasing him awake. These times, the quiet times—waking up together, unhurried, warm and contented—were what made everything else worthwhile.

But, Derek thought as he flexed a bicep, some things couldn't be dispensed with, even on vacation. "Hey, gorgeous—I'm going to hit the gym. Want to come with?"

Spencer managed to convey a wealth of information in the opening of one eye, including, "At this hour?" and "No," and  _"Hell,_  no," and "Are you insane?" all without saying a single word.

Derek chuckled. "All right. I'll be back in about an hour." He kissed his boyfriend and rolled out from under the covers to throw on his workout clothes, and then disappeared through the door.

Spencer easily drifted back into oblivion, and all was still for a few minutes. Then, he heard the door open, felt the bed dip, and, magically, the aroma of coffee hit his nose. "Thought you were working out," he murmured, reaching out a hand to touch Derek without opening his eyes. But, oddly, instead of a tight sweaty t-shirt clinging to rock-hard abs, his fingers landed on some sort of silky fabric loosely hanging over a frame as skinny as his own.

"It's  _me,_  Spencer," responded a rich deep Brit-accented voice.

"What the—" Spencer instantly came to full consciousness and reflexively reached for the gun he had stashed under the bed. He twisted into a sitting position, aiming the pistol at the intruder.

Sherlock gave him a pitying look. "Oh, please. Put that away. I've got coffee."

Spencer stared at Sherlock and the proffered cardboard cup in his hand. He slowly put down his weapon and took it, freeing Sherlock to experimentally bounce up and down and wriggle his bottom on the mattress as he made himself more comfortable beside him.

Spencer glared.

"You know, in America, we do this weird thing called 'knocking' before barging into people's hotel rooms—you should try it sometime." Spencer irritably pushed a thatch of hair out of his eyes, and then sipped the coffee.

"The problem with knocking is that people so often choose not to answer, especially at this early hour. Seemed a bit pointless to bother." Sherlock fluffed up a pillow to properly support his back.

"Will you please get out of my bed?"

"I only need a moment of your time."

"For what?"

"I wanted to thank you."

"Thank me?"

"Yes, you inadvertently gave me some excellent advice. Also, you've been a bit of a role model for me. You see, there's apparently more to this relationship business than I previously thought, and I've discovered that I'm not very good at it. But, watching you interact with your Derek really opened my eyes to some deficiencies in the manner in which I've been dealing with John... God, it's chilly in here, do you mind?"

To Spencer's consternation, Sherlock set his coffee aside, put himself under the covers and slid down, stretching into a more horizontal position, intensifying Spencer's awareness of the fact that he himself was naked. Sherlock then sighed peacefully, tenting his fingers and staring up at the ceiling. "Anyway, as I was saying, I think things will be much better between us, now. So, my deepest thanks to you, Spencer, I'm completely in your debt."

"Well, you're welcome," Spencer said sourly as he scooted to the far edge of the mattress. "Speaking of John, does he happen to know you're in bed with me?"

"No, of course not. Even I know that's not the sort of thing one's significant other needs to be privy to."

"Mm. So, was that it?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Shouldn't you be leaving now?"

"Oh, no, I've just got comfortable. I also wanted to let you know how much I appreciated your being so gracious about the phone thing. I suppose one in your line of work could have been quite a bit more... aggressive, under such circumstances?" Sherlock peered sideways with raised eyebrows, his senses keen for any information Spencer might happen to leak out.

Spencer shrugged and pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Well, yeah. I guess working for the Internal Revenue Service is a pretty rough business, now that you mention it. You were lucky I didn't throw a punch or two."

_"Internal Revenue Service?"_  Sherlock shot him a dubious look. "Ahem. Well, anyway—very decent of you, not resorting to violence or such. Much obliged."

"Uh-huh. Well, if that's all—"

"Now, the Internal Revenue Service, you say—really? Are IRS agents typically issued Smith & Wesson revolvers? Seems a bit over the top to me..."

Spencer stifled a grin. "Well, you can't be too careful when you do outside audits..."

"Mm-hm. May I have a look?"

Spencer picked up the weapon and carefully emptied it before handing it to Sherlock to examine. He then scooted a little closer in order to point out his favorite features of the finely-made weapon.

And, just then, the door knob turned.

* * *

Derek arrived at the resort workout room only to find that it was closed for maintenance. He huffed in disgust, and considered taking a run along the beach, but the sun was just coming up and the sky was exploding into colors reflected by the ocean. It was stunningly beautiful, and he suddenly missed Spencer with an ache deep in his soul.

He strode back to the room; to his surprise, his neighbor, John, was standing outside his own room, hands on his hips, looking around as if he'd lost something.

"Hey, man. Everything okay?" Derek asked.

"Oh... I'm sure it's fine. It's just, Sherlock's gone off somewhere, and that's never a good thing. I was hoping to watch the sun come up with him, but..." He shrugged and gave John a wry smile.

"That's exactly what I was hoping to do with Spencer. I'm going to have to haul his ass out of bed if he won't get up." Derek opened the door to his room and made a sharp, strangled noise.

John had started to walk toward the island coffee shop, but hearing Derek's exclamation caused him to turn on his heel and hurry back to join him. "Are you all right? What's wrong?"

"I think I found your boy," Derek said malevolently. John crowded in at the door and followed Derek's gaze—Sherlock, clad in his blue dressing gown, was lying companionably close under the covers next to a shirtless Spencer. They both had coffee in one hand, and Sherlock was holding a gun in his other.

"What the hell is going on in here?" Derek demanded.

"Morning, Derek. John. Well, nice chatting with you, Spencer. That's a lovely weapon, thank you for showing it to me. I'll just be going now—" Sherlock handed back the pistol, bounced upright out of bed, and stalked authoritatively around the two men in the doorway. "Coming, John? You'll be needing coffee, I expect, and I could use a warm-up myself. Let's go."

John was still standing facing into the room. He hesitantly looked up at Derek's thunderous expression. "Don't mind him, he does that. Boundary issues, sorry."

But Derek had his eyes only on Spencer. "Spencer? Do we have a problem?"

"No, not at all. Everything's fine." He waved the gun dismissively before setting it down and taking a sip of coffee.

John smiled in relief. "Um...see you both at breakfast?"

"Sure," Spencer answered.

"Cheers, then." John raised a hand and hastened off to follow Sherlock. Derek watched him leave, and then turned back to Spencer as he closed the door behind him. He exasperatedly threw his hands in the air.

"What the fuck, Spencer?"

"It's nothing. I was just showing him my gun."

Scowling, Derek asked, "Is that some kind of euphemism for...?"

Spencer disgustedly scrunched up his face. "Oh for God's sake—no. My actual gun, Morgan. Jeeze, don't be an idiot."

"Okay, fine. So what the freakin' hell was he doing here in the first place?"

"Aw, he's been trying to figure out what we do for a living ever since we met. He won't come out and ask, and I won't tell him. But it's fun to watch him try to play me."

"So, you invited him into bed with you?"

"No, of course not. In fact, I pulled my gun on him."

"Good thinking."

"Yeah, well, it didn't help. He brought me coffee."

Derek sighed and went to perch on the edge of the bed. "There's something wrong with that guy."

"He's okay. I told him we were IRS agents, by the way."

Derek finally relaxed and grinned. "Did he buy it?"

"No. But, it gave him something to think about other than stealing my phone."

_"What?"_

"Long story. I'll tell you over breakfast." Spencer leaned forward and took Derek into his arms for a kiss. "Can't we start this morning over?" he asked softly, lying back and pulling Derek along with him.

"As long as I'm not just a stand-in for your new English boyfriend."

That made Spencer laugh out loud. "No way, man, no way. You're the only one I want."

Derek pulled off his shirt and shorts and joined Spencer under the covers, noting with approval Spencer's growing arousal. Then, he frowned.

"Say, he didn't get a look at your junk, did he?"

"Don't think so." In an aside Spencer muttered to himself, "If he did, it's no worse than what he saw last night..."

_"What?"_

"Nothing, I'll tell you over breakfast. Look, forget about him, just... oh! Oh, Derek.  _Yeah..."_

Both men gave up talking for a much more pleasurable morning activity.

* * *

John and Sherlock were seated at a 24-hour outdoor cafe that overlooked the water. They were drinking coffee and had menus in front of them, but both were more interested in taking in the stunning sunrise display than making a food choice. Suddenly, Sherlock reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

John stared for a moment, blinking in bewilderment as Sherlock took a cigarette between his lips and lit up. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked.

"Hm? Oh. I forgot my patches. Bought these off one of the locals last night. Really, John, it's disgraceful how little attention you pay to what's going on around you." Sherlock shook his head, exhaled a generous puff of smoke, and stared off into the distance.

"Sherlock, those are horrible for your health, and after you've made so much progress quitting. This is just going to set you back, and—"

"It's fine. We're on holiday."

"Yes. An apparently unending excuse for you getting up to some bad behavior. Which, by the way, begs the question—are you going to explain to me why you were in bed with another man this morning or not?"

"Yes, yes, of course, but you must understand—I certainly didn't expect you to find out about it! And, if Derek hadn't happened to come back early from his morning workout, you wouldn't have. Who'd have thought the damn gym would be closed? Honestly, it's always something..."

John sighed patiently. "What did you want with Spencer?"

"I wanted to see if I could gather a few more clues as to his and Derek's profession. Do you know he had the nerve to tell me they were agents for the Internal Revenue Service? _Income tax_  agents. What sort of moron does he take me for?"

At that moment, the two Americans sauntered up and joined them at their table.

"Damn, that's pretty," Derek said, looking out to sea. Spencer nodded in a agreement, still nursing his cup of cold coffee. He eased himself into a chair, wincing a bit, which caused Sherlock to give a knowing smirk.

"I take it you gentlemen have had a nice holiday so far? Good to get away from boring old numbers and spreadsheets, I imagine?"

Derek chuckled a bit, and John rolled his eyes. "Um, guys—could you possibly tell Sherlock what it is you do for a living? He's driving me insane, not knowing."

Derek and Spencer exchanged a glance, and Spencer gave an almost imperceptible nod, adding, "Well, he's not doing me any good, either." Derek then turned back to their companions and said, "We're with the FBI. The BAU, specifically."

Sherlock clapped a hand on his forehead. "The BAU... _profilers!_  Oh, of course, why didn't I see it? Damn it, John, this bloody holiday's made me soft."

"We've been here less than 24 hours, your brain can't have rotted in that amount of time, good lord," John hissed before turning back to Derek. "Uh—the BAU?" John asked uncertainly.

"The Behavioral Analysis Unit," Spencer clarified. "Local law enforcement groups invite us to come in and provide psychologically-based analysis of a complex crime or crimes when they—"

"When they're in over their heads, which is only all the time..." Sherlock muttered. "I'm well acquainted with the feeling."

Derek was leaning back in his chair, following the conversation, but mostly focused on Sherlock's reactions. "By the way, we don't really want just everybody knowing what we do, especially when we're on vacation. Now... what about you two? What do you do?"

"I'm a doctor," John said.

"Medical doctor?" Spencer asked.

"Yes. And, Sherlock here is, well, the world's only consulting detective."

"Wait, you solve crimes?" Spencer asked interestedly. "For Scotland Yard?"

"I take private cases as well, if they're interesting enough. I have a website, you see."

"And, I'm his blogger," John said fondly.

"We work together," Sherlock added.

Spencer was getting an excited gleam in his eye. "Wow! What was your worst case? Have you dealt with any serial killers? Did you ever—"

Derek leaned forward and said firmly, "Spencer, chill. We're not going to talk about work, remember?"

"But—"

"Derek's right. I really was hoping to leave talk of murder for later in the day," John said. "For now, I'd love to have breakfast and just enjoy this magnificent sunrise."

"Agreed," Sherlock said with a winsome smile. "But, I do need a refill on this coffee so very badly, and poor Spencer's is ice cold. John, Derek—why don't you see after it for us? Take your time..." He held his coffee cup up entreatingly.

John and Derek exchanged glances. "Sure," Derek said resignedly. He took Spencer's cup and he and John headed toward the cafe. Once they were out of earshot, Derek shook his head.

"You know they're going to be trading stories."

"Oh, yes."

"I'd just got Spencer to relax a little."

"I know. Same with Sherlock."

"Think we could sneak some Xanax in their coffees?"

"Sherlock would know. He can read me like a damned dime novel."

"Yeah." Derek sighed as he got Spencer a fresh cup. "How long are you guys staying?"

"Four more days."

"Us, too."

The two headed back to their table. Spencer was using sugar packets to illustrate the approach to a particularly tricky unsub's hideout that he and Derek had had to maneuver, and Sherlock was peering eagerly, already drawing sharp conclusions and asking rapid-fire questions.

John and Derek paused to enjoy the sight of their boyfriends' intent faces, hands flying in conversation.

"We really shouldn't let them play together," Derek said gravely.

"But, they're having so much fun," John answered. "And, if we leave them alone long enough, maybe they'll figure out the identity of Jack the Ripper once and for all."

Derek nodded. "Prove that Oswald acted alone, or didn't. Find Jimmy Hoffa's body."

The two glanced at each other and broke into laughter.

Sherlock and Spencer didn't even notice.

It ended up being one of the best vacations any of them had ever had.

The End.

 


End file.
